


(found) family

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon Compliant, Family Reunions, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: "Text next time.  Send a psychic message.  Postcard.  Skywriting.  Whatever.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: post-Season 11  
> A/N: Apologies and kudos to inkspl0tches.  
> Disclaimer: _The X-Files_ and all related characters are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

The floor creaks and Mulder is awake instantly. Scully just mumbles and turns over as he eases out of bed. He doesn’t know how she sleeps through these things. Maybe she’s just more righteous than he is, or maybe it’s his lifetime of insomnia still nudging him out of his dreams. Maybe it’s the pregnancy. She has seemed exhausted lately. He picks up his weapon from the bedside table and pulls a clip out of the drawer. Better safe than sorry, he thinks as he slots it in. They’ve had more than a few unwelcome visitors the past few years. He slides his feet into his slippers and pads down the hallway. At least he wasn’t sleeping in the nude tonight.

There’s definitely someone in the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen and Mulder can see a shadow. Daggoo is barking quietly, these little excited sounds. He doesn’t sound upset. Mulder creeps down the stairs one at a time, sliding the clip into his weapon. 

“It’s just me,” Jackson says as Mulder comes down the stairs. Mulder knocks the clip back out of his weapon and tucks the weapon and the clip in separate pockets of his pajamas. Jackson stands in the doorway to the kitchen, Daggoo’s leash in his hand. Daggoo prances beside him, and Jackson stoops to pick up the little dog. Daggoo licks at his face and whines.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Mulder tells him. 

Jackson shrugs. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, buddy,” Mulder says. “But text next time. Send a psychic message. Postcard. Skywriting. Whatever.”

“I see why she likes you,” Jackson says. “The dog needed to go out.”

“Daggoo,” Mulder says.

“Excuse me?” Jackson says. It’s hard to think of him that way. It’s hard not to call him William, especially when Mulder can see himself in that face. Mulder wishes he could sling his arm around his boy, ruffle his hair, all that dad shit. He didn’t know what he was giving up when he left. 

“Daggoo,” Mulder repeats. “The dog. Daggoo. It’s a _Moby Dick_ thing.”

“Call me Ishmael.” Jackson nods. “On an insane quest to reclaim your manhood. I get it.”

“Scully named it,” Mulder says. “Her dad - your grandfather - he was in the Navy. It was their thing. He called her Starbuck.”

“Like the coffee?” Jackson asks.

“Like the first mate in _Moby Dick_ ,” Mulder says. “I take it you never actually read it.”

“Not even the Spark Notes,” Jackson says. “I’m going to take this little guy outside.”

Mulder nods. “I’m going to make some cocoa. It helps me sleep. I think it’s part of getting old. You want some?”

“Okay,” Jackson says. “It’s like eighty degrees outside, but why not.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mulder says. He turns his back deliberately on Jackson as a sign of trust and gets the milk out of the fridge. Instead of powdered packets, he reaches for a box of Abuelita and unwraps the tablet. It clanks into the pan. He’s learned to let it melt first, so he doesn’t aggravate his shoulder trying to whisk it into submission. Growing older is ridiculous. He expected he wouldn’t be able to fling himself after suspects the way he used to when he and Scully met, but he didn’t think making hot chocolate would potentially incapacitate him. He pours in the milk and puts the carton back in the fridge. Domestic life is much easier when all parties agree on where things are supposed to be. At least the milk has never been a struggle. Depending on how long Jackson stays, it might become one, but that’s a small price to pay for the opportunity to get to know his son. Their son. The Van de Kamps’ son.

He’s still whisking when Jackson returns, Daggoo panting beside him.

“If you’ve got any smoking to do,” Mulder says without turning, “keep it on the porch. It’s been a dry summer. Nobody wants any fires.”

Jackson unclips Daggoo’s leash. “Noted.” He settles into a chair. Daggoo prances on his hind legs, trying to get into Jackson’s lap, and Jackson scratches behind his ears. “That’s pretty chill for a professional narc.”

“You’re not in my jurisdiction,” Mulder says, whipping up a froth on the top of the cocoa. He turns off the burner. “I save my narc powers for breaking up global conspiracies that threaten all of humanity.” 

“Respect,” says Jackson. Mulder pours the cocoa from the pan into two mugs and sets one in front of Jackson. He puts the pan in the skin and runs water into it before he pulls up a chair for himself. He thinks about telling Jackson that Scully used to smoke, just to shock him, but he’ll save that moment for her. It would be easy to be overzealous, trying to catch up on all the years he’s missed. His son isn’t a baby; he’s a young adult, and he’s been on his own. He has to meet Jackson where he is, on Jackson’s terms, or he’ll probably vanish into the night like a heartbreaking vision.

“It seems like it’s a little late to pull the dad act anyway,” Mulder says. “Look at you. All grown up and manipulating minds.”

Jackson shrugs and sips at his cocoa. He makes a face as it burns his tongue. “It’s a living.”

“You know you’re going to have a sibling?” Mulder asks. 

“Yeah,” Jackson says. “Congrats, I guess.” 

“We don’t have to do family stuff,” Mulder says. He picks up his cocoa. “You did show up here, though. My psychology degree was a long time ago, but that seems to suggest you have some kind of interest.”

Jackson sighs. “It’s not like this is easy, man.”

“I get it,” Mulder says. “The last time I saw you, you were less than a week old. I mean, the last time I saw you before your life of crime began. I don’t have a lot of practice being a dad, and I was a shitty son myself.” He takes a swallow of cocoa. “Not that you’re a shitty son.”

“I am, though,” Jackson says. “My parents are dead.”

“You didn’t kill them,” Mulder says.

“I didn’t save them,” Jackson counters.

“I know how that feels,” Mulder says. “Believe it or not.”

“I can’t hear you,” Jackson says. “Not like I can hear her.”

“My dad was shot by my former partner,” Mulder tells him. “Not Scully. A rat named Krycek, who was part of the whole global conspiracy that I kept pushing up against. My mom killed herself. I never called her back the last time she wanted to talk. I don’t know if that would have changed anything. Oh, and I shot my biological father for killing you, or so I thought at the time. Glad I was wrong. Also glad I shot him.”

“Fuck, man,” Jackson says, and pauses, as if he’s waiting for Mulder to scold him. Mulder just gazes levelly at his son, trying to take in every detail. 

“You didn’t kill your parents,” he says. 

“Guess not,” Jackson says. He wraps his hands around his mug even though it’s warmish in the kitchen. “You gonna ask me why I’m here?”

“I figured you’d get to that,” Mulder says.

“You gonna wake her up?” Jackson asks.

“She doesn’t need to know you were here if you’re not planning on staying,” Mulder says, looking straight into Jackson’s eyes. They’re shaped a little like his own. It’s uncanny, after all those years of clones.

“You protect her,” Jackson says.

“We protect each other,” Mulder corrects. “Twenty-five years and counting. It goes both ways.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Jackson says. “There wasn’t anywhere else to go.”

“We’ve got a spare room,” Mulder says. “You’re always welcome.”

“Even if there’s a warrant out on me?” Jackson asks.

Mulder shrugs. “I haven’t seen one. It’s not like those DoD types haven’t come knocking before.”

“I guess,” Jackson says.

“I’m not trying to whip out my credentials here,” Mulder says, “but you ever seen one shot and faked your own death using his corpse? And that was how far we were willing to go before we had kids. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you if I can help it.”

“That’s hard core,” Jackson says. 

“You didn’t get it all from your momma,” Mulder says. “Or your other parents.”

“If I stay, do I have to talk about it?” Jackson asks. 

“The fact we thought you were dead?” Mulder asks. “Not yet.”

“That’s fair,” Jackson says after a moment.

“She’s going to be so happy to see you,” Mulder says. “She cries at everything right now, by the way, so don’t take it personally. I saw her get weepy at a commercial for paper towels the other day.”

“I’ll be happy to see her too,” Jackson says. “Uh, thanks, I guess. For not shooting me when I showed up at your house with no notice in the middle of the night, and, uh, picked your lock.”

“A skill every growing boy needs,” Mulder says. “Trust me, kiddo, I’ve had a lifetime of stuff weirder than you to deal with.”

“That’s probably good,” Jackson says. “I mean, you’re prepared, right?”

“As prepared as anyone can be for parenthood,” Mulder says with a wink. He takes a long drink of cocoa. It really is soothing. “You ready for bed? You got stuff?”

Jackson jerks his head toward a ratty backpack in the corner of the kitchen. “Just that. I might stay up for a while. Not really tired.”

“TV remote’s in the basket,” Mulder says. “Not too loud, okay? Your mom needs her sleep, with the baby.”

“You sure you haven’t been practicing this dad stuff?” Jackson asks, with a lopsided grin Mulder recognizes. 

Mulder smiles. “Only in my head,” he says. He finishes his cocoa and puts his mug in the sink. “Let me show you your room.”

They cleaned out his old study together, when Scully moved back in. It’s a lot less cluttered now. His clippings are in a filing cabinet and his books are on shelves. There was enough room for a pull-out sofa bed, one of those IKEA creations that looks a little too modern for the space. It’s pretty comfortable, though, or it was when they stretched out on it in the store. Mulder pulls out the mattress and take the sheets out of the storage compartment. He flips out the sheet, nodding to Jackson to take the other edge, and they make up the bed together. 

“Bathroom’s around the corner,” Mulder says. “Extra pillows on the couch if you need ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Jackson says. 

“You’re welcome,” Mulder says. “I mean it. You’re welcome whenever.” He turns. “This old man is going back to bed. See you in the morning.”

“Mulder?” Jackson says, and Mulder looks over his shoulder at him. He can see the delicacy of Scully’s bone structure in Jackson’s face, and something of her graceful precision in the way Jackson moves. “You’re not a shitty dad.”

“I’ll try to keep that streak going,” Mulder says. “Good night, buddy.”

“Good night,” Jackson says.


	2. Chapter 2

Mulder makes sure he’s up before Scully. She wakes up a lot to pee, but she sleeps late when he lets her. At least Jackson had the good sense to show up on a Friday night. His weapon is still out on the nightstand. He leaves it there and slips downstairs. The house is quiet. Daggoo prances up to him, whining to be let out. 

“Hold your horses,” Mulder tells him, and taps on the door to his study. “J-Man?” He doesn’t know why he says that, but it feels right and awkward at the same time. “You alive?”

“Mmph,” comes the response from inside. 

“I’m gonna go make coffee,” Mulder says. “There are towels in the bathroom if you want to hit the showers before she gets up.”

“Kay,” Jackson says.

Mulder puts grounds in the coffee machine and tops it off with water. He gets out a bowl and puts it on the counter with eggs, milk, and flour. Everybody likes pancakes. He can do pancakes. They’ll be easier on Scully’s stomach than scrambled eggs. The baby gets picky sometimes. There are blueberries for Scully and chocolate chips in case that’s what Jackson wants. By the time he’s got the batter mixed up and the first batch bubbling away on the griddle, Jackson stumbles into the kitchen, his hair damp, shrugging on a flannel over his t-shirt.

“Coffee?” he rasps.

“In the pot,” Mulder says. “Mugs in the cabinet to the left of the sink.”

Jackson grunts in thanks and pulls out a mug with “Roswell - Wish You Were Here!” printed on it. He fills it with coffee and slumps into a chair. Daggoo whines and begs and Jackson reaches down to scratch the dog’s head. 

“If you want to take him out, you know where the leash is,” Mulder says. “No hurry.”

“Yeah,” Jackson says. “I will. He’s a good dog.”

“Your mom stole him,” Mulder says. “Scully. Dana. Whatever you call her.”

“Ginger,” Jackson says. “In my head, anyway.”

Mulder chuckled and tested the edge of one of the pancakes with the spatula. “She’s going to love that.”

“Will she?” Jackson asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Mulder said. “I couldn’t get away with it, but you’re a different story. I think she’ll just be happy to see you no matter what you call her. Within reason.”

“Obviously,” Jackson said.

“She..” Mulder started to say, and then stopped. “You know what, that’s really her story to tell. I wasn’t there and I’m sorry for that. For whatever it’s worth, I thought you’d both be better off without me.”

“I get it,” Jackson said. “Global conspiracy. Bigger fish to fry than changing diapers.”

“Global conspiracy kept trying to murder me,” Mulder said, flipping the pancakes. “I didn’t want them to murder you too.”

“Fair enough,” Jackson says, draining his coffee. “I’m gonna take the dog out.”

“I’ll be here,” Mulder says. “You want anything in your pancakes? Blueberries? Chocolate chips? We might have some pecans.”

“Chocolate chips sounds kind of amazing,” Jackson says as Daggoo dances and whines. He clips the leash onto Daggoo’s collar. “Back in a few.”

The door closes behind him and Mulder turns his attention to the very important matter of breakfast. He can hear Scully stirring upstairs: the floor creaks and water rushes through the pipes. He keeps making pancakes. It might be the most ordinary thing he’s ever done, and the most extraordinary, making breakfast for his family. Scully shuffles into the kitchen, her robe partly open over her swelling stomach, and puts her arms around him.

“Finished your coffee already?” she asks.

“Haven’t started it,” Mulder says, turning to kiss the top of her head.

“Where’s Daggoo?” Scully asks, looking around. “Whose cup is that, if it’s not yours?”

“Deep breath,” Mulder says as he hears the door creak open. “Don’t freak out.”

Jackson walks in with Daggoo still prancing and Scully immediately bursts into tears. Mulder shovels the pancakes off onto a plate and holds her shoulders gently. He’s never seen her eyes so wide.

“Jackson,” she breathes, her voice shaky.

“Hey,” Jackson says. He kneels to unhook Daggoo’s leash and hangs it on its pegboard. Daggoo runs to Scully, but she doesn’t even notice. 

“Uh,” Jackson says. “I thought I’d, uh, stop by. It’s been kind of, uh, weird. Lately.”

Scully walks over to him as if she’s entranced. “Can I…can I hug you?” she asks.

“Sure,” Jackson says, holding out his arms stiffly. Scully clasps him to her as if she isn’t quite sure he’s real. He folds his arms around her and presses his cheek to her hair. Mulder watches both of them sigh, tension draining from their bodies. If he hadn’t been sure before that Jackson is their kid, he’d know now. One way or another, their son is home. 

“I never, ever wanted to give you up,” Scully chokes out, her voice muffled by Jackson’s shirt. “I hope you know that you were wanted and loved every second of your life.”

“I know,” Jackson says, a little uncomfortably. 

“They wanted to take you and turn you into a super-soldier,” Scully said. “I couldn’t let them. I had no way left to protect you.”

“It’s okay,” Jackson tells her, and he seems a little more relaxed. “My parents were good people. They took care of me as best they could.”

“I’m sorry about everything,” Scully says. “I’m sorry about your parents. I wish things had gone differently.”

“Me too,” Jackson says. “They didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” Scully says. 

Mulder turns back to the stove. The griddle’s smoking slightly. He throws another pat of butter on it and ladles out more batter, dotting blueberries and chocolate chips into the puddles. It’s his wife (or close enough) and his kid and he still feels like he’s intruding. He can’t help watching them, though. There’s a flame of love inside him for this gangly kid and it’s growing stronger every minute. Like the fire in the coal mine in Pennsylvania, he didn’t notice it at first, but under his skin, everything is shimmering like embers. His son. His son. Their miracle. There’s still time for baseball games and teaching the kid to drive stick (if he remembers himself) and stupid family movie nights with candy from the store and popcorn with extra butter.

Scully steps back. “Look at you,” she says in her trembling voice. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” Jackson says, ducking his head. The gesture is pure Mulder and they all see it at the same time and grin. 

“You knew about this?” Scully says to Mulder.

“Jackson got in last night,” Mulder says. “We had a little midnight chat. I let you sleep.”

“He didn’t know if I was gonna stick around,” Jackson says in a wry voice that sounds like Scully’s. “But I will. For a while. If that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay,” Scully says. “Did he show you where everything is? Were you comfortable?”

“It’s great,” Jackson says. “It’s all great. Thanks.” He pauses. “I don’t know what to call you.”

“Dana’s fine,” Scully says. “If that’s easiest for you.”

“Yeah,” Jackson says. “Probably.”

“Tell her what you called her in your head,” Mulder says, flipping the pancakes. “When you heard her.”

“What did you call me?” Scully asks.

“Uh, Ginger,” Jackson admits. “It was just a nickname. I didn’t know who you were for a long time. Just that we were connected somehow.”

Scully laughs. She’s crying again, but she looks happy. 

“I told him I never would have gotten away with it,” Mulder tells her.

“Dana’s good,” Jackson says. 

“Can you hear me all the time?” Scully asks. 

“No,” Jackson tells her. “But I hear you when I need to. I always hear you when I need to. I knew you were here. I guess I needed to come.” He shrugs. Scully sniffles. 

“Hear that, Scully? You’re a homing beacon,” Mulder says. “Magnetic north. The swallow comes home to Capistrano.” He puts the last pancakes onto the plate and turns off the burners. “Et voila. Breakfast is served.”

“Are you hungry?” Scully asks Jackson.

“Pretty much always,” he says.

“After we eat, you can tell us what you need and whether you’re in trouble,” Scully tells him.

“I’m always in trouble,” he says with a twisted grin. 

“Of course you are,” Mulder says proudly. “The apple doesn’t fall far from either tree, Scully.”

She shoots him a look. “One nice calm pleasant family breakfast before you regale him with your tales of our rebellious thirties,” she says. 

“Deal,” Mulder says.

“I’m honestly really looking forward to that,” Jackson says. 

“We got into some gnarly scrapes,” Mulder boasts. 

“Murder, mayhem, Mom,” Jackson says. “I’m into it. Any more stories about taking down the DoD?”

“Sounds like some midnight chat,” Scully says in her dangerous murmur. Mulder shrugs. She isn’t really upset with him; she’s too blissed out on mom vibes to reprimand him, and Jackson looks genuinely interested in hearing about their wayward relative youth. 

“Get ‘em while they’re hot!” Mulder says, flourishing his spatula at the pancakes, and they set to the serious business of breakfast, the first meal of the rest of their lives.


End file.
